Kyra***
The kitchen smells like heaven this morning fresh coffee, caramelizing sugar, sizzling sausage, and the buttery steam rolling off the croissants in the oven. My domain. My chaos.
Zaire’s kicked back at the counter, bare feet hooked on the chair rung, just watching me with that quiet, amused look he gets when I’m in full “don’t-touch-my-system” mode. I’m fine with it. Let him watch.
I’ve got three burners going and the oven humming. Cast-iron popping with sausage links and herbed breakfast potatoes, French toast soaking up vanilla and cinnamon before it hits the pan, berries waiting to be scattered like confetti. The croissants are already golden, cheese melting into every flaky layer.
“You’re making a full spread,” he says softly, and I can hear the impressed in his voice ev
